


Scullery

by errandofmercy



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Asexual Character, Autism, Cerebral Palsy, Gen, M/M, Menstruation, Other, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errandofmercy/pseuds/errandofmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This ficlet is set in the world of Bookhobbit's Childerrell fic, "The Days of Our Years". It's a wonderful story and you should go read it immediately if you haven't already. I am completely in love with Book's characterization and with the intersection of alternative sexualities, gender identities, and disabilities that Book meshes seamlessly with the canon. </p><p>I got this idea while doing my wife's laundry and it got me thinking about feminine hygiene in the late 18th century (mostly the lack thereof), particularly how a transman who had a lot of servants in his business would cope with such a thing. I think it would be a really horrible and arduous thing to have to go through every month - unless you happened to have a Childermass on hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scullery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookhobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/gifts), [OfShoesAndShips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the days of our years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824632) by [bookhobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit). 



Within the walls of Hurtfew Abbey, silence reigned. A gentle breeze ruffled the lawn and gardens outside and whispered through the trees, but it was not sufficient to rattle the ancient windows or to upset the sleeping servants in their chambers. Even John Childermass, who had been sitting up late at the servants’ table folding linens, had slumped forward in his chair and drifted off. Though he was usually a light sleeper, today had been a long day of aching legs and wobbling knees, and he was already too far gone to notice the figure that hurried past him in the sputtering light of a candle stub. 

Some time later, the stiffness that had been growing in Childermass’ spine became painful enough to rouse him, and he straightened with a groan. He grasped the edge of the table and pulled himself up carefully, stretching his protesting limbs and thinking of how his body would punish him tomorrow for this indiscretion. But the maid was ill, and the work had to be done by somebody. He completed his task and set the room to rights for the morning. Then, meaning to head for his own bed, he lit a fresh candle and stopped by the doorway to the scullery to dispose of the remnants of the previous one. 

The scullery door was closed, which was quite unusual. The other servants always left it ajar when there was not butchering or some other unpleasant task being done inside. And there was a flickering light shining under the door, lapping gently at the toes of Childermass’ shoes. 

Childermass gave the closed door a thoughtful look. He was quite sure that he had bade the servants all good-night some hours ago, and none of them would have unfinished business there. His master had been sound asleep since half-past nine - Childermass himself had had to tiptoe out of the room so as not to disturb Mr. Norrell’s gentle snoring. Perhaps one of the other servants was ill, he thought, and had had the forethought and consideration to empty the evidence of their sickness right into the bin. But he did not hear any sounds of retching through the door, only the gentle slosh of water and what sounded like the quiet patter of stray drops onto the ground. 

It was probably none of his business, Childermass thought. He was not the sort of man to meddle in things that didn’t concern him, a trait which had served him well over the years. But a strange sort of curiosity overwhelmed him, and he found his hand pulling the door open, almost of its own accord. The door swung open and his face was suddenly bathed in the light of a candelabrum, one of the finer ones from an upstairs bedchamber. It was quite out of place down here. But even more out of place was the figure that stood hunched over the washtub, red-faced and wide-eyed and looking quite like someone who had been walked in upon while stark naked.

“Sir?” Childermass blurted. His eyes darted from Norrell’s flushed face (whether frightened or furious he could not tell) to his rolled-up sleeves, to his swollen pink hands, and then to the steaming washtub. Inside the soapy water floated a collection of what looked like thick rags, blotted and stained with dark blood. Childermass’ eyes widened. Was Norrell injured? Had he gone and hurt himself in some embarrassing manner and had been concealing it from Childermass to avoid humiliation? What could have possibly caused him to bleed so mu-

The realization hit Childermass at once. He had just enough time to open his mouth and begin to fumble for words when Norrell rushed towards him. 

“I do not appreciate you barging in here without so much as a knock!” Norrell cried. “You ought to be asleep at this hour, in any case! You will forget what you have seen, Childermass, and leave me in peace!” 

The door slammed abruptly in his face. Childermass stood there for a moment, contemplating. He waited. Then, he knocked.

There was no response. He knocked again. 

He heard footsteps approaching the door. Norrell opened it a sliver and peered up at him with great suspicion. “What do you want?”

Childermass kept his voice very even and soft. “I have rubbish that needs throwing out. And I thought perhaps... I could assist you.”

For a long moment Norrell stared at him hard, looking ready to slam the door once more. But at last he relented, and gave Childermass a narrow opening to slip into the room. The iron tang of blood and the chemical smell of soap filled the close, humid air of the scullery, and the overabundance of candles did not help the stuffy atmosphere. Norrell shut the door behind him and watched as Childermass disposed of his candle stub and propped himself against a counter piled with dishes and sacks of dry goods.

“I shall admit it has never occurred to me before,” said Childermass tentatively, “but I do not understand why you insist on doing this yourself. It cannot be a task that you enjoy.”

Norrell looked at the filthy rags in the basin and recoiled visibly. He seemed quite agitated, as if at any moment he might weep or fall prey to one of his fits. Childermass guessed that the physical discomfort of touching and scrubbing his soiled linens, combined with their effect as a painful reminder of the realities of the body he inhabited, would be more than enough to set him on edge. “I hate it,” he said. “There is nothing in the world that I despise more. It is so... filthy... so insulting...” Norrell’s hands began to shake, and he stepped backwards to press himself against the closed door. He slid down to the floor, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and his little mouth shrinking into a thin, trembling line. “I cannot bear to touch them - the blood, and the smell-” His sentence was cut off as his throat closed in a sob.

Childermass crossed the room and leaned against the wall beside his master. Very slowly, he sank to the ground, gritting his teeth against the painful trembling in his legs and pressing his palms firmly to the wall for purchase. Norrell seemed momentarily too absorbed in his own misfortune to notice his servant’s discomfort. 

Childermass looked at Norrell’s hands, still puffy from scrubbing, to give his master the freedom to look up at him without fear. “Sir,” he said firmly, both to secure Norrell’s attention and to remind him that he was seen and known the way he wished to be, “you need not trouble yourself with it. If you were-” Here he stopped himself, for he did not know if what he had thought to say would comfort Norrell or further upset him. If you were a lady, you would have your servants take care of such things. No, that would be a foolish thing to say. He tried again. “It would be an easy addition to my duties.” 

Norrell gave Childermass’ shoes a suspicious glance, but his breathing seemed to even out somewhat. 

“I do not mind the sight of blood,” Childermass insisted quietly. “Is that not the reason you have servants, to take care of unpleasant things?”

“You do not find it... repulsive?” asked Norrell in a small voice. 

Childermass shrugged. It was not a thing he had done before, but it seemed to him no more or less appealing than emptying chamber pots or nursing his master through a fever. “No, sir,” he said. “It is the most natural thing in the world.” 

Norrell drew a deep breath, and raised his gaze to meet Childermass’ at last. “Perhaps you could... but I require absolute secrecy. How will you make sure that no one discovers them? If my... if anyone were to find out -” For a moment his composure faltered once more, and his hands grew wild.

“I can do it in the night, as you have been doing,” replied Childermass, rocking a little on his heels (his legs were beginning to hurt again). “ I daresay if you have been getting away with it all these years, I shall be able to do so.” 

Norrell frowned at Childermass’ knees. 

“Do you trust me?”

After a long pause, Norrell nodded. “Very well,” he said softly. “If you are sure that you are... equal to the task.”

“Aye,” said Childermass, his mouth turning up at one corner. He could read the tentative relief spreading into his master’s face like sunlight poking through clouds. 

As Norrell got to his feet, Childermass tried to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate. Quite by accident, he let out a frustrated noise, and Norrell turned to look down at him. 

“Are you all right?” Norrell asked as Childermass blew out his breath. Norrell’s cheeks were still rosy from vexation, and his eyes shone with receding tears as he stood over his servant. Despite the pain he felt, Childermass was quite warmed by the image. He made to try again, but to his surprize, Norrell knelt wordlessly before him and threaded his arms under Childermass’ shoulders. Childermass followed his master’s lead, and held on while he was slowly (and a bit awkwardly) half-lifted to his feet. For a pleasant moment, the odor of the room was replaced by the scent of Norrell’s neck: powder, musk, and something milky, like the downy head of a babe. Childermass was quite reluctant to be released. He thanked his master quietly, but Norrell did not respond. 

“Shall I take you back to bed?” Childermass asked.

“No,” said Norrell. “Not yet. I do not wish to leave them... unattended. I will wait.” 

Childermass was not surprized. Though he was very tired and would have liked to be done working until the morning, he understood that this task could not wait. Even if he stashed the rags somewhere, Norrell would not sleep easy until he was sure that the job had been done to his satisfaction. So with a slight resignation he hoped did not shew, Childermass rolled up his own sleeves and set to work at the washboard. 

He did not know how much time they passed in that stuffy little room, amid the odd smells and the slow, repetitive slosh of water. At first, Norrell looked away, no doubt relieved to have been unburdened of the task and eager to forget it. But after a time he came closer to Childermass - whether from boredom or a desire for closeness it was difficult to tell. There were many questions that flitted into Childermass’ mind during those long moments, but he released them to the aether just as quickly. He was curious to know more about Norrell’s peculiar journey, how such a fearful, anxious man had been able to summon up the courage to defy the social order on such a fundamental level. But this vulnerable moment was not a time for those questions. If Norrell wanted to share his past with Childermass, he would do it in his own time, and in his own way, as he did everything else. 

After a while, Childermass became aware that Norrell was watching him intently. Norrell’s gaze, which earlier had sought any place other than the basin, now seemed fixated upon his hands as they scrubbed and rinsed, wrung and massaged the fabric back to cleanliness. Childermass cast him a sidelong glance. “Is this the way you do it?” he asked in a voice husky from long moments of silence.

“I was not so efficient,” replied Norrell, with a touch of humour that made Childermass feel strangely proud. Norrell shifted from one foot to another. “I should like to be useful,” he said to Childermass.

Childermass felt his mouth quirk up at one side at that; it was not something he heard often from his master, but he did not make a jibe of it. “You could put on some water to boil,” he said, “for a last rinse. There’s a big pot over there, hanging on a hook.” Childermass continued his labor as he listened to Norrell putter quietly and inexpertly around the room he spent so little time in. It was absurd, he knew, but he felt an undeniable warmth rising in his chest. Norrell had let him in. Norrell had permitted him to see. And now Norrell was allowing him to help. He felt a fierce desire to be worthy of this trust, to protect his master’s secret and the life he had built from scraps and risks and determination. He could have embraced Norrell then, dirty, dripping forearms and all, but he did not. What he was currently doing would mean much more to Norrell than an impetuous gesture such as that. 

He wrung out the last of the soiled rags and dumped them into the new pot of clean, bubbling water. Then he and Norrell hauled the heavy washtub outside together, as quietly as they could, and emptied it onto the grass. It was slow going, with Childermass moving slower than he’d have liked and requiring frequent breaks, but Norrell seemed too relieved to care. Once the water was poured out, though, the lifting became much easier. Standing out there, under the night sky, against the great looming silhouette of Hurtfew, in his tasseled nightcap and nightshirt, Norrell looked so very small. And yet, to Childermass, at this moment, he was everything that mattered in the world. 

Childermass promised to hang up the rags in his own room to dry, where they would be out of sight to any of the other servants. Norrell reluctantly agreed that he would rather not see them again until they were needed, and together they made their way up the winding stair to the master bedroom. Just as he had done in the coaching inn, Childermass leant a little on his master as his tired legs climbed the stairs. Through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, Childermass could feel the soft flesh of Norrell’s shoulder, more relaxed than he had expected after such a tribulation. It was difficult to keep his hand steady and strictly practical in its intent. 

When they reached the master suite, Childermass set down the candelabrum and turned down the counterpane upon the bed so that Norrell could climb in. A vivid memory of their night in the inn (which, in Childermass’ revisitations, had grown conveniently cleansed of fleas and arguments over book sales) sprang to his mind, but he pushed it away. 

“Thank you, Childermass,” said Norrell. “That will be all.” He sank down into his blankets like a burrowing creature preparing for winter, and Childermass felt an odd twist in his chest.

“Good night, sir,” he said, and blew out the candles. 

“Good night.”


End file.
